Yorkshire Love Song
by ericajanebarry
Summary: "Falling in love you remain a child; rising in love you mature. By and by love becomes not a relationship, it becomes a state of your being. Not that you are in love — now you are love." Even mature love continues to grow, as Richard and Isobel spend Valentine's Day at the Newton House with their grandson. *Rating jump at Chapter 3*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I wanted to get these words on the page at Christmas and it didn't happen. Then I wanted them done in time for Valentine's Day and, well, it _almost_ happened. I'm considering _almost_ the new bar to aim for when it comes to my own ambitions of late. **

**So this piece is compliant with the others in the modern Richobel retirement AU. One need not necessarily have read them all in order to understand the context, but let's be real: those reading my work anymore are longtime friends and followers who are familiar with the storyline. Thank you, loyal readers.**

 **This will have at least one more part (which is possibly finished, unless I decide it needs to be broken into a third as well). And the beginning gets out of M rating on a technicality. As to inspiration, I've been hearing Penny's voice in my head ... just various things she's said in interviews about grandmotherhood and growing older and wiser. And then there's my own amazing Yankee grandmother, who knows all of the words to every song _ever_ and has sung them all to me over the years. This chapter makes references to "All Things Must Pass" by George Harrison. And there are always the Buttershaws of _Last Tango in Halifax_ and the Hardcastles of _As Time Goes By,_ whose love stories provide me with no shortage of ideas. **

**xx,  
~ejb~  
**

* * *

She's taking a domestic turn these days. Cooking dinner for herself and her husband is one of the simple yet profound joys from which she derives great satisfaction in her retirement. She would angst over the sort of statement it makes with regard to feminism … except for the fact that she couldn't care any less if she tried. She has had years —a lifetime— of blazing trails; achieving the highest solve rate of any physician in the history of Obstetrics at St. Mary's Hospital chief among her accomplishments. She looks back with pride on those years. There is little about them that she'd change if given the chance. Just the one thing, really.

It would have made a change to have had someone to share it with. It isn't that Matthew was uninterested —quite the contrary, in fact— but he was busy with the business of young adulthood: reading law at Oxford, interning with a barrister in the West End, getting a flat with some colleagues and falling in love. He was his mother's pride and joy, so attentive that there were times she was fairly forced to shove him out the door to go out with friends. No; what she had missed during her years of driving hard was someone to tell it all to at the end of the day, a warm body to lie with. Someone to champion her causes and to take her to task when she was wrong. But she's had enough run-ins with regret to have discovered that self-flagellation solves nothing, and in her best moments she can learn from her mistakes and move on. After all, few know better than she just how short life can be.

Besides, she has it in abundance now. All of the things she missed have come back to her once again. For the second time she has found love with her best friend, and it's been rather like the last pieces of a jigsaw finally sliding into place. The time she spent on her own sharpened her self-awareness, ensuring she had no doubt in her capacity to exist independent of a relationship. But the fact that she had those desert years, after having spent just as many in a wonderful and fulfilling marriage, kept her heart tender; when love did come along again she was keen to welcome it.

She chuckles softly when she realises she's fallen rather deeply into a session of wool-gathering whilst washing up. Dinner is ready whenever her husband is, and as she pops it into the AGA to keep warm she wonders idly where he's got off to.

It's time to check the fireplaces. It's funny; she'd stayed in this house a thousand times over the years, often for long stretches, but still there has been a steep learning curve since moving up here full time. One of the biggest shocks to the system came the first time she had to have the fuel tank filled, to the tune of £770. They've since worked out a system of keeping the wood fires banked constantly, so that they're only using fuel to cook and to heat water. Bless her husband and his having been brought up in the country!

On her way to stack the big fireplace in their bedroom, she walks past the nursery she fixed for their grandson and stops abruptly.

 _All things must pass  
None of life's strings can last  
So I must be on my way  
And face another day_

Intrigued, she pauses in the open doorway. There is her husband, walking back and forth in front of the window with a drowsy baby George propped against his shoulder. A near-empty bottle sits on top of the dressing table, a hooded towel hangs from a hook beside the cot. The babe has been swaddled for bed. Richard is oblivious to her presence as he continues to sing softly:

 _Now the darkness only stays at night time  
In the morning it will fade away  
Daylight is good  
At arriving at the right time  
But it's not always going  
To be this grey_

 _All things must pass  
All things must pass away  
All things must pass  
All things must pass away_

She retreats to their room, quickly stacks the fire before her purpose gets forgotten, and sits down heavily on the bed. Tears that have no basis in sorrow spring to her eyes. It's a phenomenon she first discovered as a new mother half a lifetime ago. It is possible for the heart to be so overwhelmed with love and joy that it manifests in great, heaving sobs and copious tears, which her daughter-in-law refers to as 'ugly crying.' Oftentimes since falling in love again, and of particular frequency over the past year, she has found herself overcome like this. It ought to be beneath the dignity of a woman of her stature to behave in such a way, it's just …

 _It's just that—_

The door opens and closes and she straightens up, sniffling, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.

"There you are! I thought I'd find you in the kitchen. The wee chap should be down for a good few hours now. He's had a bath and nearly finished his bottle and—" He stops short when he sees her tear-stained face. "Darling? What is it?"

Shaking her head and smiling softly, she rises and moves to stand before him, her hands going to the lapels of his shirt. "Happy tears," she assures him. "I was on my way to stack the fire in here and I heard you. 'All Things Must Pass …'" She pauses as two teardrops slide down her cheeks, then chuckles as she wipes them away. "Here I go again. I used to sing that song to Matthew. I watched you through the doorpost for a minute and …" More tears. "... I've seen you soothe babies hundreds of times, and I don't know whether you'll know this but it's got to me every time." She looks up at him adoringly. "It's beautiful, Richard. So much so that it hurts a little, especially with George." On seeing his furrowed brow, she goes on, "I think it's different with him because he's _ours._ I'm thrilled that you've got a grandson."

He grins ... "As am I," … and then frowns, "but you said it hurts you. Why; is it because of the year we've had?" He leads her to sit beside him on the settee at the end of their bed and wraps his arm around her.

Resting her head on his shoulder, she nods. She can smell the baby's sweet, just-bathed scent on his shirt. "We were so close to losing Matthew after the accident, and what would I have done if—"

"But we didn't," he interrupts, squeezing her hands. "He's alive, and well on his way back to full health now. Well enough to take his wife out dancing on Valentine's Day. That was a brilliant idea of yours incidentally, us keeping George for the night. You know they'd never have left him otherwise. Certainly not with Robert and Cora!"

That gets her to laugh. "Oh, imagine it! Robert changing nappies in a biohazard suit. And Cora wringing her hands when the lad refuses a bottle." With a shake of her head, she pauses briefly. "No, you're right; Matthew is on the mend and he'll be back working full time by spring, and what did we learn the first week of medical school? Forget about the 'what-ifs;' it's what _is_ that matters. But it's all rather different when it concerns one's own. It brings up a few things I thought were old news. Losing Fiona, and your loss of Jessie _and_ a daughter you hadn't even known about until it was too late."

"Isobel," he breathes, drawing her closer. They hold one another in silence for long moments.

"I know it's all so far in the past and I've no desire to dredge it up again," she says, breaking the silence. "Can we leave it, for now, at my having 'all the feels' —as I've heard the kids say— at seeing you with George? I feel a fool and besides, dinner's ready."

He fixes her with the look she's begun to refer to as 'You Can Run, But You Can't Hide,' lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back of it. "Alright then. But I will want to come back to it at some point."

She kisses his forehead. "Yes, I know. How do you stand it, Richard, hmm? Me and _all the feels."_

"Give me a bit of credit," he teases. "I knew what I was signing up for."

That's the truth. The benefit of having been the best of friends for a dozen years before they were anything more means that each one knows the other better than they know their respective selves. For the first time since coming fully into her own, she can say that there's someone who knows everything about her and loves her —not in spite of it all, but _because_ of it all.

Dinner is rife with smouldering looks, the wine steadily flowing as they hold hands under the table. They don't need to go out in order to feel they're getting full mileage out of the holiday. Lounging together on the couch in the conservatory after the dishwasher is stacked, watching snow fall as they sip what he calls 'Scotch hot chocolate,' each has all they'll ever need. They are long enough together now that companionable silence is a thing to be cherished, and when he reaches for her with _that_ expression on his face she comes eagerly into his arms, holding her breath as she awaits the brush of his lips against her own.

Kissing him is yet another marvel. There is both comfort and thrill in the thrust and slide of lips and tongues, the easy warmth of stretching out to lie together. The element of surprise gets the best of her when he rises, offering her his hand. "Shall we go upstairs?"

She feels his eyes on her body as he follows behind her. There is exhilaration at any age in being longed for by the object of one's affection, but the rush of knowing that, aged 61, she captivates him is peerless. She changes in the bathroom; a spritz of L'Occitane Verveine, bare beneath her white nightie.

He devours her with his gaze as they pass one another, he in nothing but his shorts on his way to the bathroom and she to the bed. She slips beneath the covers, sitting back against the headboard, her mind flashing once more on the sight of him singing to his grandson as she waits for him.

He pauses on his return trip to the bedroom. She is reclining with her eyes closed, dark lashes curling against her cheeks. The corners of her mouth are lifted in a sweet hint of a smile. As he climbs into bed beside her, the shoulder strap of her nightgown slips down. He glides the backs of his fingers over the soft golden skin it exposes, his lips following suit before putting the strap right.

Tiny pinpricks of electric current dance along her nerve endings at his touch. She shivers and they both giggle.

"Cold, love?" he teases, laying their pillows flat.

She plays along. "Mmm. Frozen stiff. Pity I've no husband round to warm me up."

He pounces, laying her down, her wrists loosely held in his hands against the pillow. "Haven't you?" he rasps, tickling her neck with his moustache.

"Ooh, sorry," she coos. "I can still scarcely believe you're mine sometimes."

"C'mere, beauty," he murmurs, spooning up behind her. There are few things in life she loves as much as this, even if she's never been able to work out precisely _why._ It's secure, with his arm around her, enveloped by his warmth. And it's provocative: his breath on the back of her neck, the curve of her bum tucked into the cradle of his hips. It's home to her. She has never felt a sense of _rightness_ like she feels when they are together this way.

She sighs deeply, her body melting into his. " _This,"_ she whispers, unaware of having done it until he answers:

"Yes."

Moving her own hand to rest atop his, she entwines their fingers. They are quiet. He kisses the patch of skin beneath her ear and she exhales a breathy, " _Ohh."_ She fights the urge to roll her hips against him and he feels the tension in her body.

"Move, sweet girl." He speaks right into her ear, brushing her hair aside to rain kisses on her neck and shoulder. She wiggles her hips and feels him twitch, beginning to harden.

"I'm tempted to get carried away," she remarks as he lifts the hem of her nightgown, groaning when he discovers the absence of her knickers.

"If it wasn't so much fun to let it simmer," he breathes.

"Mmm." She nods, her stomach tightening deliciously when he flattens his palm over her abdomen. "The benefits of experience." Theirs is the ability to ignite the spark of desire and let it burn long and slowly, no mad rushing towards one's own end.

"Will you tell me now what you couldn't bring yourself to say before?" He strokes her belly, her hips as she circles them against him.

"I don't want to get maudlin, but you spoke just now of supposing we'd met earlier. I've indulged in the odd flight of fancy myself and … well."

"Go on," he prompts her.

"I love to watch you with babies. You have a way that men don't often come by naturally, and it's nothing to do with being a neo.* I'm … I'm just sorry you weren't a father, Richard." Realising how it could come across she adds, "I do hope you hear that the way I mean it. It isn't an indictment."

"No, I know it isn't. I should say, I know it because I've had similar thoughts myself," he confesses.

Nonplussed, she turns over her shoulder to look at him. "Have you done?"

"Only I never thought it prudent to tell you because … well because you were so happily married when it would have been a possibility, and then when you weren't anymore you lost more than just your husband." He shrugs. "I didn't see how your knowing about it would promote anything positive."

Leaning up momentarily, she grabs his face and kisses his cheek. "I love you," she tells him. "You've always got what's best for me in the forefront of your mind."

He answers by holding her tighter.

"Will you tell me about it now?" she asks gently, mirroring his earlier enquiry.

"I've worked with medical staff all my life, but I've never met anyone who comes by nurturing the way you do. And it isn't flattery; I saw it from the first consult we ever did together. Don't take this wrongly, Isobel, but … you're such a _mother._ I know it's just one facet of your character, but it's a prominent one. It went a long way towards your success and it wasn't anything you had to _do._ It's just who you are. I hope I've not put my foot in it."

She turns in his arms, levering up on her elbow to see him more easily. "Of course you haven't. When we were coming up a person could call things as they saw them without others inferring that they were ... pigeonholing. And anyway one of the best things about you is how plain-spoken you are. The words you say mean exactly what they sound like they mean, no reading between the lines required. It's a wonderful compliment, Richard." She pauses, fiddling with a stitch on the coverlet. "I wish you'd known my mum. She was everything I've ever wanted to be. And what you said about me … those are all things I saw in her. She was … do you remember in the eighties when we all started trying to be everywoman?" He nods and she continues, "Well I've never managed to carry it off, not really. But Mum did, and she wasn't even trying. Anyway, I didn't mean to interrupt you. Do go on."

He smiles indulgently, smoothing his hand from her shoulder to her hip. " _You_ love without trying, whether or not you realise it. You see good in people I've quite honestly written off. Look at your relationship with Mary. She's blossomed under your guidance. You're far more of a mother to her than Cora's ever been, and I don't need to have known them long to say that with confidence. And all of these things make me wonder what it would have been like to have a family with you. And, well …" He trails off, turning his head away before she can see the red flush that tinges his ears.

"You aren't fooling anyone, you know," she rebukes him softly, feathering her lips over his shoulder. "Come on. Tell me."

He sighs. "I suppose it makes me sound like a Neanderthal, but I would have had quite a thrill seeing you carrying a child of mine. I don't know …"

"No, darling, you _do_ know," she asserts. "Anyway I'd love to have had your baby. In theory. I had hyperemesis with Matthew—"

"Oh, _God,"_ he groans sympathetically.

"Oh yes, right up until thirty-two weeks. And you know we couldn't treat it then the way we do now. Luckily I avoided hospital because I had Reg and Eddie. But I had an NG tube, and intravenous hydration, and it wasn't pretty. Of course it was altogether different with Fiona …"

"I'm sorry," he tells her, suddenly solemn. "I didn't mean—"

She cuts him off with a kiss. "No, I know you didn't—"

"And anyway it's useless to talk about because it could never have happened."

She senses his embarrassment and turns away from him again, knowing he feels too exposed to face her. In order to maintain a connection she reaches for his hand, bringing his arm around her waist. "You see that's where you're wrong, darling. It benefits you to be talking to a woman because I happen to think it's romantic, even having seen reality from every possible angle as I've done. It's a natural extension of our loving one another that we think about it."

They fall comfortably silent as she snuggles against his body and he holds her. His touch is soothing and reverent and arousing by turns, and she gasps when he glides the tips of his fingers over her bare breasts and belly. She still hasn't worked out how he can _do_ that to her … lulling her nearly to sleep whilst somehow coaxing the ache inside of her to a fever pitch simultaneously.

"Richard?" she says after a time.

"Yes, beauty?"

"I would, you know."

"You would what, love?"

"Have your baby, if I could. It doesn't change anything—"

"But it's lovely to share the same dream."

"Yes it is." She turns her head to kiss him. "Goodnight, my darling."

He kisses her again, deeper this time. "Goodnight, sweet girl."

* * *

 ***neo - neonatologist; Richard's specialty prior to retirement  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: This is getting longer than I'd originally foreseen. I'm taking cues from several of my favourite of Pen's characters for this chapter, as well as from an interview she gave to Kate Kellaway of _The Guardian_ in September 2001 entitled _A study in emotion._ It's a fascinating read if you've the time.**

 **Somebody tell me I've not cracked.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

They take it in turns to tend to George during the night, Richard warming bottles (and reassuring MacTavish that he's still top dog) whilst Isobel changes nappies. The baby awakens twice, not bad at all for his age, especially considering he's away from his mum overnight for the very first time. He isn't particularly keen to go back down after the second feed, so they bring him into bed with them and Isobel turns him over to Richard to get his wind up. She lies awake for a long time watching her beloved asleep with their grandson curled against his chest. Her heart hasn't felt so full since seeing Reggie and Matthew this way so many years ago.

She finds she sleeps like a mother again with the baby here, one eye open; one ear attuned to every breath, every snuffle. Dawn is just breaking when he begins to fuss in earnest, so she rises and shrugs into her dressing gown and gathers him up so Richard can lie in. She carries him downstairs and secures him in his bouncer while she lets the pup out, stacks the fireplace and warms a bottle. She settles on the couch in the conservatory with George and tries the bottle, but it's clear when he turns his head away every time she offers it that hunger isn't the trouble.

"What is it, little one, hmm? Tell Nana. We'll put it right." She moves to the rocking chair but that doesn't settle him either. Undaunted, she wraps an extra blanket around him and rises, walking him back and forth in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows. She begins to talk to him just like she did when his father was this size, describing the snow and the trees and the birds at the feeder. He calms at the sound of her voice and begins to coo, his tiny body going limp against her shoulder.

"Have you got stories for Nana, sweet boy? Oh, you're so clever. That's lovely, my darling."

At some point she starts singing to him without realising she's doing it, and songs she'd long ago forgotten, ones she sang to Matthew, ones her mother sang to her, suddenly come to memory as if no time has passed at all.

 **oOo**

In the bedroom Richard awakens, reaching for Isobel and finding the bed cold on her side. He can't see the clock above the mantel so he gropes for his specs on the bedside table. Coming away empty-handed, he grumbles, "Need the damned things to find them." Having not yet broken his physician's habit of keeping his phone beside the bed at night, he grabs for it and reads the time: _7:15. Isobel's never out of bed at this hour._ Then he remembers. _George is here._

Making his way downstairs, he stops off in the kitchen to make the coffee, knowing his wife will need it. She tends to be monosyllabic and temperamental in the morning until she gets the first cup down. Imagine his surprise, then, when he —a coffee cup in each hand— reaches the door to the conservatory and hears fragments of song coming from within.

 _The night we met I knew I needed you so  
And if I had the chance I'd never let you go  
So won't you say you love me,  
I'll make you so proud of me.  
We'll make 'em turn their heads every place we go_

He gets the door open (no small feat with both hands full) and pauses, not wanting to give himself away. The fact that she's singing is nothing new; she was a concert pianist after all, and music is in her blood. In fact one of his favourite peculiarities of hers is the way she goes round the house singing to herself whilst ironing or washing up or running the hoover.

What stops him where he's stood is the sight of her crooning to the babe in her arms with the sweetest satisfied smile on her face. He flashes back on their conversation last evening, and what she said to him resonates profoundly. He's seen her with a thousand babies, but it _is_ different watching her with her own flesh and blood. He has witnessed the way her heart still aches for the daughter she lost, but the blissful expression she wears now tells him that George's presence goes a long way towards filling the void.

He may not have got to watch her raise a family, but he thinks the scene before him now is all the more precious; almost sacred, even. Her life's work has come full circle inside the walls of this house that has played host to her highest highs and darkest hours.

 _So come on and, please,  
Be my little baby  
Say you'll be my darlin',  
Be my baby now  
Wha-oh-oh-oh._

He moves towards the couch and she catches sight of him. The smile on her face speaks volumes, the warmth in her eyes stealing his breath for a moment. She settles herself and George into the corner and holds her free hand out to him. Setting the coffees down he sits beside her, pulls a blanket over the both of them and hands her a cup.

She takes a sip and closes her eyes, savouring it. "Very much needed, love. Thank you. And good morning." She leans in to kiss him.

"Oh, I don't know. You seemed to be getting on just fine there, Ronnie*," he teases. "You've been holding out on me in the mornings, sourpuss. What's the lad got that I haven't?"

She rolls her eyes good-naturedly and elbows him in the ribs. "You're _hilarious,_ Major." In contradiction to her words, she strokes the hair at the nape of his neck, running her fingernails lightly against the direction in which it grows. It never fails to elicit a soft moan from him, at which she smiles. "No, but … he brings it all back somehow. I was forever singing to Matthew, all sorts of things. Probably because my mum always sang to me." She looks down at their grandson, taking his tiny fist in her hand and kissing it.

The baby begins to rouse after some time, fussing as he nuzzles his face against her breast. She glances at Richard, surprise and awe and a bit of anguish written in her expression.

"Are you alright, love?" he asks softly. She nods, not quite dismissive. Having seen it before, he could recognise it blind: she's in Dr. Crawley mode, her message clear. _I'm going to need you later, but I'm holding it together for now._ He kisses her cheek and rises, going to the kitchen to warm a bottle and refill her cup.

"Oh, darling, that's the one thing Nana can't do for you," she tells her grandson idly. "But do you know something? Mumma planned ahead for that, yes she did! And Granddad will be right back and we'll get your belly full, and then we can have a bath and perhaps go for a stroll round the garden before Mumma and Daddy get here. Would you like that, my love?"

When Richard returns with the bottle, she offers it to George several times and is met with refusal despite the fact he's hungry. This is common; when a baby thinks he's getting the breast it can be difficult to persuade him to accept a different texture. She knows scores of tricks to try: holding him close to her breast, laying him down across her knees, turning him away from her, swaddling him to keep his flailing arms from knocking the bottle away. One after another, however, they all fail, and the more upset the little one grows the more her frustration is evident as well. _I spent forty damned years doing this and now I can't even help my own grandson!_ It's never rattled her like this before, and it makes her feel a right idiot.

When silent teardrops start to fall, Richard intervenes. "Nana, I think you might be a bit too reminiscent of Mumma at the moment. Go and have your bath whilst we lads have some one-on-one."

He's right, of course, but she feels … just … _raw,_ and thinks of a colloquialism of her grandmother's ('Like standing naked in a barn') that would make her laugh at any other time, but now …

She is icy as she hands the baby over, not uttering a word nor meeting Richard's eyes. She takes her leave with an affected sigh. In the bath she cries, at first for nothing, then for the memory of her final time nursing Matthew, and at last for the dark days after Fiona was gone, her breasts full and aching, no baby to feed and no husband to soothe her and _why is all of it coming back now?_

She'll be alright, _of course_ she will.

She never properly grieved in those days, and it's natural for experiences like this one to bring old things to the surface again.

She has everything she has ever wanted: a husband once more, a son who is achieving his dreams. A daughter whose affections have been hard-won but who is thriving, and (such a pleasant surprise!) who is turning out to be a wonderful mother. Her house whose rafters she swears in the quiet echo all the laughter its walls have contained through the years. A grandson who is the image of his father and grandfather. A career built against all odds; countless lives begun in her arms, a secure retirement.

 **oOo**

The baby is fed and changed when she returns, warm and powder-sweet from his bath and ready for a cuddle. Richard hands him to her and her eyes meet his contritely. She sees a flicker of hurt in the clear blue depths, but more than that, she sees forgiveness she hasn't earned.

She rocks her grandson in the same chair in which she rocked his daddy, snuggling him against her heart. She wonders who he'll grow to become and pleads with the almighty that she'll be there, by grace, to see it. That is her most frequent prayer in these golden days: _Give me time, the time Reg never had._ Time to archive her mother's diaries, to digitise all of the old family photographs and videos. Time to plant an apple orchard; to see the trees produce a harvest. Time to watch MacTavish grow old, to see him and George have adventures together. Time to dance under the moonlight with Richard on their tenth wedding anniversary, their fifteenth, their twentieth. To make love with every last ounce of their strength. To see her grandson marry and her son become a grandfather. Her chest aches with sobs she swallows down; rocking back and forth, feeling the years roll by. Today the baby's sighs are soft and sweet against her cheek; tomorrow he'll be running. Starting high school, graduating uni. _Stay little, sweet boy, for as long as you can. Grow up kind, like your daddy. Like the granddad you know and the one you'll never meet. Work hard. Play hard. Travel. Love._

 _Give me time._

 _Give me time, give me time, give me time._

Matthew and Mary arrive late morning looking refreshed, full of stories about their night away. Matthew is walking so well now, and in a month's time the external fixators supporting the hardware that holds his right leg together will be removed. She is pleasantly surprised by the force of Mary's joy at being reunited with George. Love is changing that girl, softening the heart of stone that for so long rendered her cold and aloof. She is proud of her son, of the woman his wife is becoming thanks to him. She sees so much of Reg in the heart he displays. Life is good, life is good.

She persuades the kids to stay for lunch, pulling together a salad and pasta with veg, and she holds the baby so that Mary can eat. She watches as some sort of wordless conversation takes place between her son and daughter, Mary nudging her husband with her elbow.

Smiling, Matthew begins, "Mother, Richard … Mary and I have been starting to plan for our return to work …"

"Of course, it'll be very gradual, just a couple of days a week at first," Mary chimes in. She glances at her husband, who nods as if urging her to continue. "We've taken the decision to stay in Yorkshire for the time being. The pace of life up here is more conducive to Matthew's recovery, and given that all of his therapies are outpatient now …"

"The neurosurgeon only needs me to follow up every three months at this point, and the orthopaedic consultant wants me in every six weeks, and it's easy enough to go back and forth on the train. Of course we'll be keeping Richard's flat in the city, but we're planning to move into one of the houses Robert owns on the estate."

"Another of our chief concerns was keeping in close proximity to George's grandparents," Mary adds. Isobel watches with amusement as an odd expression crosses the younger woman's face. She is learning to express herself more like an actual human and less like an heiress, but it doesn't always come easily. "Matthew and I can't imagine how we'd have survived these last few months were it not for the both of you. That's why we wanted to ask if you would consider keeping George for us when we do go back to work."

"We don't want you to answer straightaway," Matthew adds. "We know it's a big ask, and that you've both been talking about taking on a few shifts at the hospital in York. It's your retirement and you're meant to be enjoying it. God knows there's nobody more deserving than the two of you. Just talk it over and let us know what you think."

Isobel sits down lest she fall down with the babe in her arms. "This is …" She glances at Richard, who looks pleased but guarded. After her behaviour this morning she can guess at why. With every fibre of her being she wants to shout, _Of course we'll do it! It's not even a question!_ His caution vexes her, whether or not that's fair to him. "This is wonderful news. I don't know what to say … I … Of course we'll talk about it! It's an honour that you've asked us."

"We've time to hire a nanny if we need to, which is why we're asking at this juncture," Mary explains. "There's no one we trust more than you both to care for our son." She smiles softly. "No one besides the two of you loves him like we do. But please don't feel pressured. There's no mad rush. We just wanted you to know that you're our first choice."

Richard moves to stand behind Isobel, putting his hands on her shoulders. _Steady on,_ his touch communicates. "We won't need much time to come to a decision," he assures the children. "We wouldn't want you scrambling. And as Isobel said, we're very honoured."

 **oOo**

The three of them head home after lunch, after Mary has nursed the baby in the hope that he'll sleep for most of the drive. Matthew promises to ring her after he sees the occupational therapist on Wednesday. A few unchecked teardrops slip down her cheeks as the car pulls out of the drive and it's silly —her family are off to London, not South America. And in a month's time they'll be five miles away. _When did I become such an introspective, soppy old lady?_ she wonders. She would worry it's a depression, except that she's moved to tears as frequently by joy and beauty as by sorrow. She'd put it down to the menopause, but she's too old and it's ten years since the last of those symptoms receded.

She isn't trying to avoid Richard, not exactly, as she tidies the house in the afternoon. It's only that there are conversations coming that she's not keen to have. Not because they're going to row necessarily (though they have got one to resolve, thanks to her). No, it's _wonderful_ being known by him, being seen for who she truly is. She would never choose to go back to a life without him. But there's a price to pay for being so damned self-revelatory all the time. She doesn't _like_ all of the Isobel that he sees, doesn't want to be forever grieving for her first love and the children they lost. Not when she's happily remarried and freshly retired with a beautiful, brand new grandson.

She used to think it was exhausting to put on the mask of the polished professional every day, to do and do and never feel. And that's the crux of it, right there: she's always had _all the feels._ She could disguise them before. Her façade made her feel shallow and disingenuous, but it was … neater. Prim and proper and English and _hers._ But she never could hide her true colours from Richard. That isn't his fault and, in fact, it's why she loves him. Not that he has ever forced her to talk about anything; to be sure, the man could easily go for days without uttering a word. She just wants the Isobel he sees to be as pure and uncomplicated as _he_ is.

* * *

 ***Ronnie - Ronnie Spector (of the Ronettes). Of "Be My Baby" fame.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I've been wrestling with this update for some time. It was all the usual suspects: self-doubt, no time, fear that I write exactly the same thing over and over. And then, out of nowhere, a huge loss. My favorite uncle was in an accident at work and the result was toxic lung poisoning. He died three weeks ago. I can't even believe I just typed that.**

 **I've decided not to care whether I repeat myself. I'm proud to have got to a place where I can break chapters and I will not apologize for the M-ness. My dear friend (who patiently bears the brunt of all my writer-angst) says I shouldn't change what I do, so I won't. Life, as I have been reminded lately, is way too short.**

 **xx,  
~ejb~**

* * *

 **PREVIOUSLY:**

 _She isn't trying to avoid Richard, not exactly, as she tidies the house in the afternoon. It's only that there are conversations coming that she's not keen to have. Not because they're going to row necessarily (though they have got one to resolve, thanks to her). No, it's wonderful being known by him, being seen for who she truly is. She would never choose to go back to a life without him. But there's a price to pay for being so damned self-revelatory all the time. She doesn't like all of the Isobel that he sees, doesn't want to be forever grieving for her first love and the children they lost. Not when she's happily remarried and freshly retired with a beautiful, brand new grandson._

 _She used to think it was exhausting to put on the mask of the polished professional every day, to do and do and never feel. And that's the crux of it, right there: she's always had all the feels. She could disguise them before. Her façade made her feel shallow and disingenuous, but it was … neater. Prim and proper and English and hers. But she never could hide her true colours from Richard. That isn't his fault and, in fact, it's why she loves him. Not that he has ever forced her to talk about anything; to be sure, the man could easily go for days without uttering a word. She just wants the Isobel he sees to be as pure and uncomplicated as he is._

* * *

He knows that she's upset, but not the extent of it. It must involve him somewhat by the distance she's putting between them. He was prepared for the difficulty of separating from George, but there's something more, something deeper at work.

How to broach the subject is a mystery. He could turn a blind eye to it (which is the action she seems to favour) and risk her thinking he is ignoring her. He could try to make light of it, but she might interpret that as ridicule. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. Or he could handle it according to his inclination and stop walking on sodding eggshells. She's no little girl; she's the former Chief of Obstetrics. A bit of confrontation won't break her and besides, he's hardly the lecturing sort.

He approaches her as she is doing the washing up. "I'll take over if you like. Or I could dry. Make room on the draining board." He rolls his shirtsleeves to the elbows. She doesn't look at him, but that gesture earns him a tiny smile.

"Yes, alright … if you'd like to dry it's … um … Thank you." She is guarded but cordial, which is less than he hoped for but better than several possible scenarios he'd imagined.

"My pleasure," he answers. Just last evening she had told him how much she appreciated his plain-spokenness, so he reckons he'll (delicately) give it a go. "You're not singing, love. There's something amiss." Not a question; it's an observation. An exceedingly gentle one.

"I'm … Pardon?" It has the desired effect of catching her on the back foot without offending. Thus far, anyway.

"Well, you sing to yourself as you go about cleaning the house."

"I do?" She'd never realised. "Well, what do I sing?" That's got her looking at him, an almost-smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

"Oh, all sorts. The Hollies are popular. The Beatles, The Byrds. One day it was the whole of the _Tapestry_ album."

"Oh now you're just having me on!"

"I'm not, you know. Anyway it's quite nice. And the absence of it is felt."

She drops the tea towel she was fiddling with. "I'm sorry I was ratty before. It's— … I'm— …" How does one quantify something she doesn't understand herself?

"I wasn't angling for an apology," he tells her.

"Well, that's fine, but you're owed one." She reaches for the scrub brush; perhaps keeping to her task will render conversation moot. His hand covers her own. _No such luck._ She looks up at him, her expression a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

He blinks, obviously taken aback. "You know I'll never insist that you talk to me, but I can't presume to know what you're thinking. I'll leave you to it, but it bears telling you that I love you—"

"I wish you wouldn't!" she cuts in.

He reels. "Sorry?"

"I wish you wouldn't love me so unquestioningly all the time! Richard, I'm not _like_ you."

There are several remarks in varying degrees of sarcasm that spring to the tip of his tongue, but he settles for, "Would you care to qualify that assertion?" Backing up from her, arms folded across his chest.

Oh, now she's just being cruel. _Look at him; kind, wonderful man. Those eyes; so hurt._ _ **You**_ _did that, you mad fool._ "Richard, I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice cracking as she begins to sob. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You deserve so much better than me."

He puts his hands on her shoulders. "Love, sit down," he tells her, and ushers her to a chair at the table by the front window. He sits down opposite her. "Now, walk me back to where it went awry."

"When he wouldn't take the bottle for me … well, for starters I felt like a first-year blundering about in front of the senior consultant. It's like … what? Rolling a vein during a blood draw. _You incompetent twat."_

"I do hope you know that thought never crossed my mind—"

"Oh yes, of course I know it. For just a moment I forgot that I haven't got to impress you." _That_ doesn't sound right. "No, wait, I mean—"

He puts up a hand as if to say, _Easy, now._ "You've nothing to prove to me. You're my wife and I love you. I've been _impressed_ since we met fifteen years ago."

Her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes, but he can see she's calming. Thawing. "That's what vexes me. Times when I'm icy and vile and you just forgive and forgive when I'm so undeserving."

He rolls his eyes magnificently. "Would you rather I held a grudge, then? Need I remind you it's the national sport where I came up?"

"Thanks just the same," she answers with an eye roll of her own. She reaches for his hand and wraps their fingers together. "You've lived through the same sort of things I have —worse, even, with having been to war— but you're not given to the same streaks of darkness as I am. I want to be better than that. For you. Because _you_ are."

"But our experiences haven't been the same, love. I adored Jess, but I didn't spend half my life with her. As close as we were, it's nothing approaching what you and I have. I've mourned for our daughter, but I didn't even know of her existence until she was gone. You grew up alongside Dr. Crawley, and carried four of his children to see only one of them survive. I should like to have spared you losing all you lost, but it's made you who you are. You look at life in ways I don't; ways I _can't."_

She still can't manage to shake the feeling that he's got his thumb on the button that magnifies her peculiarities and she feels … _squirmy._ Like a specimen under a microscope. But it isn't his fault, not his fault, not his fault. It's _her,_ and it's like she can't stop it. She sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of her nose.

He reads the agitation in her body language: the tension in her shoulders, the averting of her eyes. Times when she gets like this, it's easiest to reach her while she's attending to the work at hand. He flips on the radio in the kitchen and returns to the washing up.

She watches for a moment, hears him humming, notices how perfectly his bum fills out his jeans. _Where did_ _ **that**_ _come from? You see, it isn't him._ It isn't him; it's _her._ He's wonderful and he's here and he's hers. She rises, joining him beside the sink.

"Richard," she says softly. He pauses to look at her. "I'll dry," she offers, and he nods, handing her a saucepan. "Richard, I don't know what's come over me. I'm sorry. I wish there were better things I could say, but I am sincere. I had no reason to be so wretched. I love you."

He smiles gently. "I never doubted. Shall we try and puzzle it out, or would you rather we didn't?"

She pauses thoughtfully before answering. "I'd sooner we waited if it's all the same to you. You deserve objectivity, and clearly I can't offer any just now."

"Very well," he tells her. Through with his task, he dries his hands and leans against the side, hands on his hips. "Is there anything I can do to help?" He has an inkling what her answer will be if she's honest with the both of them.

She doesn't feel right asking him, not after the way she's behaved.

Gold Radio comes to her rescue. "Originally released in 1963, our next song —and its lead singer— made a cameo appearance in Eddie Money's 1986 hit entitled 'Take Me Home Tonight.' Here's Ronnie Spector and the Ronettes with 'Be My Baby.'"

He eyes her, grinning.

She smiles back. "Ironic, that."

"Rather," he agrees.

"I remember watching my mum and dad dance to this song," she tells him fondly. "Oh, but they were marvellous!"

"Mmm, as were mine. It's a lost art, I think. The young ones now just stand there looking like zombies."

"I think we muddle through alright, you and I," she says.

"Shall we?" he asks, arching an eyebrow.

She nods, moving into him. He loves dancing with her —the elegant set of her shoulders, the fluid grace with which she moves. She's never been much for following in the shadow of a man, but dancing is different: if one doesn't follow, the other simply can't lead. And there is a not-so-secret part of her that loves being held and coaxed along. By him, of course.

She leans her head against his shoulder, lightly scratching the short hairs at the nape of his neck, humming softly. His body is warm in a way that reassures her, soft in places that comfort —the rounded corner where his neck and shoulder meet, for one. He is solid and masculine in ways that make her want him. His chest pressed against hers, she can feel the beating of his heart. He is vulnerable like this, and she muses that _this_ is why they're alright. So perhaps he doesn't openly grieve his losses. He leaves his heart completely unguarded before her. He needn't advertise its contents; they're available to her at any time. All she needs to do is look. _That's_ trust, and he does not give it cheaply.

"Do you know what I love about you?" His lips brush the side of her neck as he speaks, sending a shiver down her spine.

"Hmm?" she answers, her hand leaving his neck to smooth down his back.

"You've a fondness for this song that goes beyond just happy memories, haven't you?"

"Mmm, maybe," she answers coyly. She knows where he's going _(the cheek!)_ and, well, he isn't wrong.

He kisses the sensitive spot where his lips rest, exhaling hot breath against her skin. "It's a wonderful secret, really: that a woman of your stature, a leader in her field, is so swiftly turned to mush by a four-letter word …"

She utters a sort of half-laugh, half-groan. "Richard," she whinges.

He laughs, the vibrations rumbling through his chest where it touches hers. "So sorry. I promise I shan't be cruel … _baby."_

" _Stop,"_ she whispers, her protest unconvincing.

"You're beautiful when you're like this," he grins.

"Like _what,_ hmm?" she challenges, one eyebrow raised.

He kisses it back into place. "Oh, you know, all … hot and bothered."

She leans away from him. "Is that what you think?"

Faux-mollified Isobel is hilarious to him. "It's what I _know,"_ he whispers in her ear.

She feels her knees going and tightens her grip on his shoulder.

"Go on then; tell me I'm wrong," he teases.

She can't, of course. It's maddening, the way he gets her to throw off her inhibitions. "When you say that," she begins, eyeing him, "I always think …" She cups her hand around his ear and leans in. _"... Lay me down right_ _ **now**_ _."_

He groans softly in response, his arm slipping to her waist. They've all but abandoned the pretence of dancing now, as he rests his forehead against hers and she traces the topmost few buttons on his shirt. She works open first one, then another; a third and she lays the palm of her hand on his heart.

The steady _thump-thump_ beneath her fingertips is the gauge by which life is measured now. She lives for that heart. Kissing him there, she looks up. "Still mine?"

"Always," he answers. Just like that, all animus is forgiven. After a moment he turns the conversation back to her last remark. "Come to bed with me."

 **oOo**

It's thrilling to be asked, she thinks. To be pursued. Especially after she's hurt him, and whilst they're still somewhere in the middle of ironing it out. He told her very early on that he didn't believe in make-up sex, as the very nature of a row communicates the exact opposite of "I want you." She is grateful to him now for interpreting (correctly) that the current discord is not a case of things gone wrong between them; it was, at best, a misstep in communication and at the worst her pride getting the better of her. Either way, she needs him. His warmth, his wooing of her. The life that courses through him: the blood in his veins and the heat of his skin. His whispers in her ear, sharing confidences, things he wants to do with her. _To_ her.

Her stomach flutters in anticipation as they climb the stairs. One would assume from the fact that they find themselves in this position so frequently that they'd have developed a _modus operandi_ of sorts, if not routine then at least typical of them. Still, somehow, one always manages to surprise the other, and this time is no different in that regard.

She starts to turn down the bed but he stops her.

"Isobel."

The way he says her name makes her breath catch. She answers him with a look.

He approaches her, stepping close, cupping her cheek. She leans into his touch. "It's wonderful, the things I know about you that nobody else does." The pad of his thumb brushes across her lips, the lower one trembling. He leans in and she holds her breath. He smiles. "Sweet girl."

She is equal parts expectancy and impatience as she awaits the first brush of his mouth against hers. She can already taste the Hennessy on his lips, and she could just _do_ it —lean in and steal the kiss—, but the pleasure of receiving it from him is worth the wait. At last the tip of his tongue touches her bottom lip, just a tease, and he slants his mouth against her own.

She opens to him and he kisses her fully. Her fingers twist in his hair as his hands move from her shoulders to the collar of her blouse. She watches their movement, the fascination written on his face as he reveals her torso. As the garment falls away his fingertips repeat their journey, this time smoothing over bare skin and the sheer white lace of her bra.

"This is new," he says, fingering the edges.

"Mm-hmm," she affirms. "See anything you fancy?"

With a feather-light touch he skims the backs of his fingers over the filmy gossamer that lies between him and her flesh. Her knees buckle and she sways as he edges closer and closer to her nipples.

He can _see_ the effect he's having on her. "Rather! Are there more where this came from?" He cups her breasts, the peaks of them hard as pebbles in his palms.

Breaths coming quickly now, she pants as she answers him. "I'm sure it can be arranged, since you asked so nicely." She giggles, and it turns into a gasp when his fingers slip beneath the lace. She arches into his hands.

"It's perfect," he tells her, all sincerity. Then, pointedly, "Oi. _You're_ perfect." He knows what she's been thinking, and _she_ knows what he means — _You're perfect_ _ **for me**_ _—_ as well as why he's chosen not to say it that way. _Perfect for one another_ is the benchmark; it should go without saying.

She lowers her eyes and he catches her wrists in his hands. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he brings her to stand between his thighs. "Isobel. I _love_ you." He kisses her below the band of her bra; her belly flutters. Her skin is so soft, and he smells the traces of verbena that linger there. For _him,_ for him. She wears it because she loves it, because it reminds her of childhood summers (he knows this because he asked her once). But she wears it _there_ for him alone. More kisses, feeling the quivering of muscle beneath sweet skin as his mouth moves towards her belly button and then back up, teasing her, open-mouthed kisses to her breasts through the lace.

She wants him, to be held against the warmth of his skin, her breasts in his hands and the hard heat of him deep within her. He is nuzzling her, the boundary of flesh and fabric and she guides his hands to the clasp at her back, pressing kisses to his head, his ear. She trembles as he drags the straps of her bra down her arms, giggling when he steps away from her momentarily to lay it on the chair.

"Wouldn't want to risk a casualty," he explains, winking at her.

"No," she purrs, "we can't have that." Swiftly, before he can sit back down, she pulls the hem of his vest from his trousers and works open the button and zip. It's his turn to shiver: small, proficient hands on his hips, pushing his trousers down. Hands and lips gliding over his belly, his chest, lifting his vest over his head and tossing it to the floor.

The rasp of his chest hair against her nipples makes her moan. She needs this, _this,_ _**this.**_ She clutches at his shoulder blades, holding him to her, frantically kissing him wherever she can reach: his shoulder, his collarbone; the pulse point in his neck beckons to her. He works her trousers off and lifts her out of them, squeezing her bum. Then he lays her down gently, a pillow beneath her head, and slides his arms under it as he nestles his body against hers.

"How did I do?" he asks, his eyes bright with mischief even as he grinds his erection softly against her pubic bone.

She makes a funny little sound, half a giggle, half a moan. "Darling," she says breathily, pushing up against his circling hips, "did I miss something?"

He bends his head to kiss her collarbone, sucking at the hollow at the base of her throat. The rasp of his afternoon stubble burns a little; she aches to feel him like this at her breasts. No sooner does the thought pass through her mind than he _does_ it —scrapes his chin across her nipple, then soothes the sting with his tongue.

"Oh, _Christ,_ Richard!" She clutches at his head, dimly registering the fact that she asked him a question; rather, he asked first and then she. "Darling!" she gasps, rapidly leaving go of her capacity to reason.

He grins, lopsided and wicked, his eyes darker. "I believe your exact words were, _'Lay me down right now.'_ So, have I carried out orders to your satisfaction?" He leans down again, tracing the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

She reaches down in answer, slipping her hands beneath the waistband of his shorts and grasping his buttocks, rocking her hips up sharply as she pulls him tightly to her. "Solid execution, Major." She laughs and kisses him hard.

He leans up, kneeling on the bed to slip off his shorts, her hands joining his. As he tosses the offending garment to the floor she caresses him, ghosting the edges of her fingernails over the muscles of his lower abdomen, lifting his penis from beneath. Holding him gently in her palm, she traces the index finger of her other hand along his length. He twitches in her hands, his head thrown back. It makes her wet, stroking him. Makes her ache.

His hands are on her hips, tracing the edges of her knickers. He kneads her bum, teasing the cleft. She mewls, her sex clenching.

He gets her knickers off of her and from there it happens as if they are in a dream, their existence compressing into breath and friction, silence contrasting with whispers, moving to the rhythm of two hearts beating. Her arms and legs open to him and he covers her lips, the line of her jaw, her neck and shoulders and collarbones with kisses. She cries out at the feeling of his weight upon her, wrapping herself around him. Heat, so much heat, coiling in her belly, waves of anticipation at the feel of him hard against her.

"I love you," she whispers, and it's an apology and a declaration of sensations and emotions that language fails to capture. Her hands are moving on him, reaching between their bodies to stroke him. She thrills when he grunts and pushes himself into her hand. "Yes, Richard," she coaxes. He twitches, grows harder, and she feels it between her legs, that persistent blossoming ache that only he can soothe.

He laps at the pulse in her neck, rocking into her hand, scraping the edges of his teeth over her throat. "Jesus, beauty … want to be in you," he moans, verging on a cry, inarticulate and vulnerable and she loves him for it. He spoke before about the secret information he has on her, but she's gathered plenty of her own intelligence. She is the only one who sees him in these moments; the keeper of his every confidence.

"Come on. I want you." She eases him inside of her slowly, tipping her hips up. _Oh!_ The stretch, the way her body welcomes him. Her eyes sting with barely-formed tears; it's _that_ good. Their mutual gasps and the way he _fits_ within her, binds himself to her frantically. It's never the same twice and it's glorious, vital and _real._ "Oh, darling … Yes," she breathes.

He sheaths himself inside her fully, ducks his head. Kisses her hard. "You feel _so_ good, Bel," he rasps.

She whimpers at his words and draws him down so that their chests touch. She rolls her hips into his, pushing him deeper still. He grinds against her softly in answer and she holds his face in her hands. "Just like that," she murmurs, kissing his lips.

She is all around him, tight and slick. Sweet and so sultry; she's everything. _It's always been her,_ he thinks. In her eyes he sees children unborn to them. Wonders how it would have felt to hold her, life moving beneath his hand. Thinks how beautiful she'd have been. He chases away the thought; she's so very beautiful _now,_ moaning beneath him as he begins to move. She kisses him, her cries lost in his mouth.

There has been great pain for the both of them, sacrifice and loss. Lifetimes spent alone and he suspects she's grieving those desert years and all their "might have beens." But they are survivors and here, now, all there is, is love. They do not share the history that each one longs to have had. But to them, in their autumn, is the luxury of _choice._ Time and togetherness. Life can be exactly as they want it, and that's a freedom they would not have had a decade ago, two.

She touches him where he moves in and out of her. He gasps, bends his head, draws her nipple into his mouth. She keens and he feels it low in his belly. The whimpers that fall from her lips _(Sweetheart! … Love me, darling, don't stop! My god, that's good … don't stop!),_ the long graceful arc of her spine as she clings, desperate to be closer to him. He suckles deeply; she grasps his buttocks, holding on for life. Neither one wants this to end.

There are benefits to being their age, and one of which they are particularly appreciative is stamina. He moves and moves and moves in her, slowly at times and faster at others. She takes it all, takes and takes and gives as good as she gets, arching madly against him. When his shoulders tremble with the effort of holding himself above her, she lifts her legs and reaches for his hips. "Like this, love," she murmurs.

He kneels between her legs, holds her thighs. Thrusts hard; deeper. Throws his head back. _"God,_ yes!"

She gazes up at him and he's _perfect_ here, now, making love to her. It's her epiphany. He isn't without flaws any more than she, and it _doesn't_ matter. He is gorgeous, wholly desirable. The movement of his Adam's apple when he cries out; the breadth of his shoulders. His chest, the smatterings of silver hair and the definition of muscle. His ribs. He hates that scar, and she loves it because it's tangible evidence that her soldier survived. She reaches out to touch him there, reverently. His taut abdomen, the trail of silky hair that runs from his navel to his pubic bone where it darkens and thickens before culminating _here._ Where he rocks her, fills her. The throbbing within her becomes blissfully unbearable as she watches him.

"I _feel_ that, beauty," he breathes. "So tight. So close."

" _You_ did that," she pants, and he growls, surging forward until he bottoms out inside her. "Oh Jesus," she gasps in response, "touch me!"

He stays where he is, rolling his hips. The palm of his right hand rests low on her belly and with the left he traces his fingertips through her labia, finds just the spot. Long strokes alternating with shorter ones, so gentle. So _right._ Her breath comes in sharp, punctuated gasps, wanton cries torn from her throat on the exhale. _Richard! God … Oh, love … oh, love!_

When she comes he presses his fingers hard against her. "Beautiful, Isobel," he tells her in an awed whisper. Just as she thinks it's over she catches him watching her, fixated on the point where they are joined. His eyes are almost black. Hungry, she thinks. A new wave crests and she squeezes him again _—still?—,_ all the while chanting.

 _I love you. I love you. I love you!_

He picks up his rhythm again while the aftershocks are still coursing through her, and it feels so good that tears spill from her eyes. He is right above her, supported by his forearms, and he kisses the teardrops away. She caresses his face, nipping at his lips, swallowing his murmured, "I love you" as she wraps her legs around his waist.

" _Ohh,_ that's deep," she sighs. She is so full of him, body and soul, heart and mind. "Will you come for me, darling?"

He kisses her roughly in answer, and when he begins to chase his own end she holds him, as much of him as she can, her hands skimming his flanks. She kisses his temple when he drops his head into the crook of her neck. The way he moves is art, it's sin; it's harder, deeper instead of faster and hoarse, lustful cries in her ear. She flexes her inner muscles when he's close and soothes him, coaxes him, awash in his heat as it fills her.

"Yes, Richard. I feel it!"

"Isobel!" He shouts her name as he comes, pumping his hips for long moments as she grinds up against him. Usually he stays inside her until he naturally slips out, but this time he rolls off, lying next to her, gathering her close.

"Thank you, darling." She is breathless, her voice throaty, most of it having vanished with her orgasm. Turning to face him she blinks slowly, her eyes heavy-lidded, her smile soft and sexy.

He pulls her top leg to rest between both of his, caressing her bum. "I'm the one who should be thanking you." He kisses her, slow and sweet and she hums against his mouth. "You are beautiful," he tells her with indigo eyes full of love.

She rolls on top of him, kissing along the ridges of his collarbones and down his chest. Her legs are spread over his hips, keeping her weight off of his groin. She feels the hot rush of sticky fluid leave her body, spilling from her onto his belly, and she groans.

"Are you alright?" he asks, smoothing his hands down her sides.

She meets his eyes, nodding, looking sheepish. "Miss you already," she confesses, and then adds, "I always go on wanting you, even after we've come." She smiles in that peculiar, self-effacing way of hers.

"I love that about you," he affirms, running his fingers through her hair. They are mostly silent, trading soft kisses for a time. She lets his words work their way down deep as he traces aimless patterns across her back.

When he stills, his arms wrapped around her lower back, she begins to wonder whether he's dropped off to sleep. "When I said 'thank you,' I meant for more than just making love," she says quietly. Whether he hears it or not, she's got to say it. "Thank you for loving me … all of me. Because you do, Richard. Even the wretched bits you don't just tolerate; you love."

He feathers his lips over her forehead. "Your _wretched bits_ are brilliant, beauty. Rest awhile, eh? Later we'll talk."

 **oOo**

She awakens to the sensation of soft lips feathering across her bare back. For a few minutes she lies quietly, savouring his touch, but when he drops kisses on her hip bones, when he nudges her knees apart; when he begins massaging her bum, she can no longer stifle a moan. She thinks of what brought them to bed, of the way it felt when he was inside of her as deep as he could be, and she feels her cheeks flush.

"Mmm … hi," she murmurs, smiling as he lifts her leg to rest on his, opening her to him.

He takes himself in hand, rubbing the head of his penis against her labia. She is still wet and he is painfully hard and he slips against her heat. "Can I have you?" His voice is husky with sleep and she moves against him as he nibbles her earlobe.

She turns over her shoulder to look at him and kisses him fully. "Touch me again," she tells him, her own voice high and tight. "Take me."

He slides inside of her agonisingly slowly until he is pressed against her cervix. She can feel him, them; his pulse along with her own and she gasps, reminds herself to breathe. He circles his hips and she elicits a long, primal groan.

"Yeah?" he asks in answer, kissing the back of her neck.

" _Richard,"_ she wails, unable to manage anything intelligible.

His arms come around her and he takes her breasts in his hands. She arches her back, the thrust of her hips sending shockwaves of sensation through her core and his groin. He swears sharply, breathes it into her ear and takes the lobe roughly between his teeth.

"Mm-hmm," she sighs, laughing low and seductively. "Indeed."

As they rock together, languid and unhurried, one of his hands leaves her breast to trail downward, past her ribs, pausing to rest firmly on her belly. She has a flash of him cradling her and an unborn child this way, but before the pangs of a longing that can never be fulfilled take hold his fingertips find her centre.

" _Oh,_ right there!" she cries. She feels his lips curl into a smile against the base of her neck. As they move together, she has the idle thought that the motion of their hips is like that of a seesaw.

"I love you, Isobel," he half-whispers. She feels the words on her skin. "I can't have you close enough. Your touch, your heat, your beautiful heart. The way you let me know you." The edge of his thumbnail scrapes against _the_ spot that is her undoing and her body trembles. She sucks in a breath, trying to hold her climax off. "Let it go, baby," he urges her, choosing his words deliberately. "Come for me."

She lets it blossom, lets it roll over her. She doesn't hold back the tears or the shudders or the shouted cries. He asks her if she's alright after she's come down a little and she hums in satisfaction and reaches back to give his bottom a firm squeeze.

"Little minx," he snarls. She giggles, wiggling her hips in a way that makes them both cry out. She is deliciously sensitive now and she would have him inside her forever if she could.

"Mmm … don't ever want to stop," she drawls, pushing back against him and gasping.

"Oh, _God,_ do that again!" When she does, he sinks his teeth into the sweet, soft juncture of her neck and shoulder. His hands come around to clasp her breasts again and it's exactly what she wants, needs, dreams of when she thinks of them together.

Just like this.

 **oOo**

It's wildly decadent, eating pancakes for supper on the couch in the conservatory, both of them in their dressing gowns, having alternately dozed and made love all afternoon. It's snowing, and he watches her watching it, the way her eyes lock onto a singular snowflake and follow it down to the ground. She's mesmerised and it tickles him; in some ways her fascination and exuberance remind him of a child's.

"Thought you hated winter," he muses, drawing her closer so that her back rests against his chest.

"I suppose I'm mellowing with age," she tells him. He can feel the vibration of her words where their bodies touch.

"You, my darling, are ageless," he counters.

She wraps his arms tighter around her middle, folding her own around them. "Surely you're due to visit the ophthalmologist, Major," she teases. "Well I'm mellowing with love, then. How on earth could I be unhappy?"

He grins at this, but he can't stop himself from wondering. "You sure that isn't the afterglow talking?"

"I'm inclined not to give a damn if it is," she tells him, proving his point.

He chuckles, but it's only half mirthful. "Only I know something touched a nerve in you today, and if it's all the same I'd like us to put it right before the day is over."

She sighs, shifting to recline against the arm of the couch, her feet in his lap. "No, you're right," she admits, pausing. "I'll preface this by saying that it was nothing to do with you. You were an easy target for my frustration over things I shouldn't feel. That I don't want to feel. It's juvenile, and I'm mortified."

"Don't let's waste time labelling it. I'll argue that you let me have it because you know you're safe with me. And you are." He reaches for her hand and she graces him with a watery smile. He continues, "What concerns me is your fear of feeling … whatever it is you're feeling. You don't _do_ fear, Isobel. What's that about?"

She lets his words echo in her head. _You're safe with me, you're safe with me._ She rubs her forehead, trying to smooth her furrowed brow. "We were both of us saying how we'd have liked to have a family together," she begins. He nods and squeezes her hand. "I get angry, Richard. Angry that Fiona's life was over before it ever properly began. I'll always be angry that Reg was taken from me, and I hope you understand that it doesn't mean I'm not in love with you or that you're sloppy seconds. I think you do, but there are moments I doubt. Not because of anything you've done, mind … I just …" She gestures into the empty space as if searching for an explanation that isn't there.

"Darling, of course I know it," he assures. "I know that you love me. I've never felt I'm competing with Dr. Crawley. Never. Not once."

She manages a small, grateful smile before continuing. "I'm angry that I was robbed of a second chance at all of it, with you. It's true I'd have been old, and my track record was abysmal even when I wasn't. But you and I both have seen it happen many times."

"Quite," he agrees. "But Isobel, your heart wasn't yours to give then. You know it's true. You were very much in mourning for your husband, as well you should have been."

"I know," she says quietly. Her eyes betray her anguish.

"Mind you I'm not saying that your feelings are misplaced. You're _you;_ you know things I don't by virtue of having lived them. But your guilt is. I don't hold anything against you, and I don't need to have known Dr. Crawley to know that he wouldn't, either. Talk to me about George. You say he brings it all back. Tell me about that."

Her eyes are still wet at the corners but her face lights up at the mention of her grandson's name. "When one has a baby, there's so very much that seems so hard in the beginning. You're not sleeping, and some days you can't even shower, and delirium sets in. You think you'll never survive it. There's a tiny, angry thing that needs and needs and until you get to know one another, there's miscommunication. So you miss the wonder of it all. You've created such beauty. Just the weight of them in your arms, the sweet little sighs and the smell of their head. The feeling when the two of you finally click, and suddenly the cries are distinguishable and your voice begins to soothe them. It's easy to see it in hindsight, like so many things." She smiles sagely. "Now I know exactly what I missed, and I'm getting it all with George."

"And because you've been there from the moment he was born, you've bonded with him as strongly as Mary has. More so, I'd say. That girl wouldn't be a mother if not for you."

Caught a bit wrong-footed by his words she nudges his ribs with her foot, blushing slightly. "That's as may be," she demurs. "Without that baby to dote on, I'd never have got through Matthew's accident. But you know, there are times he reminds me of all that I lost. You're his grandfather, of course you are, but so was Reg, and he ought to have known his grandson. I sometimes think of the two of us, of how we'd pass George back and forth and marvel at how much he's just like his father. If, you know. End of."

"If you're expecting me to be jealous then you're going to be disappointed," he interjects when she trails off.

"I only told you a half truth before," she confesses, emboldened by his acceptance.

"Oh? Go on."

"Well I said I let it get to me when I couldn't get him to take the bottle, and it's true, but … But he was rooting to nurse and the floodgates just burst open. There it was, right in my face: everything my body can't do. I'm not a complete fool; I know that at this age I'd naturally be past all of that even if I hadn't lost it all. But it took me back to the days after Fiona. My baby gone, my womb gone. I suppose I could just about have survived it with Reg beside me, but I was alone. I had to do something, Richard. I'd have died without some sort of purpose …"

He has to smile a little at this. Even if she doesn't believe it herself, she's wired to be a survivor. "I'd expect nothing less."

"I've never shared this before … my Aunt Máirín and my doctor —my colleague— knew, but that was it. I kept up a supply … you know …" She meets his eyes furtively, and he nods encouragement, "... for six months. Donated it to the NICU. I'd probably have starved otherwise, without a reason to eat. After a while I just stopped producing … I lost her at eighteen weeks so it's really quite extraordinary that I ever had any at all. Probably because she wasn't my first …"

He probably shouldn't be surprised —she is the most selfless human being he has ever known— but he is blown away that in the depths of her grief she was still thinking of others.

"I know I don't need to tell you how many lives you saved. That's as far from failure as one can get, Isobel." He leaves it at that. Knows she didn't tell him out of any desire for affirmation.

"Perhaps." She hugs her knees to her chest. "Wouldn't you think I'd have moved beyond it all at this stage, Richard? The life we've made together is the stuff of dreams; why can't I leave the past behind me?" She pauses; he watches her eyes as she blinks thoughtfully. "It never was a case of noble intentions, you know. It was all about self-preservation." There it is, finally. The source of her self-reproach brought to light.

He doesn't reply immediately even though the words are there. While he could never condemn her, the last thing she'll accept is a blind rush to her defence. "Will you consider," he asks carefully, "that the intent behind your actions is not so important as the results?" He gives her space to think and adds, "Do you honestly think that Dr. Crawley would fault you for working so tirelessly and for giving life to newborns who, in all likelihood, would not have survived otherwise? It sounds to me like the ideal way to honour his legacy, and your daughter's."

She is silent, thinking. She would like to refute what he said, but in true Richard form he's put to death any possible objection.

Patting her on the knee, he rises from the couch with the tea things. "Just going to stack the dishwasher and pour us a drink. I should ask yourself: would you really want the memory of them to stop following you? Is it not a testament to the significance of their presence? Something to think about."

With a wink he takes the dishes away, leaving her quite a lot to mull over.


End file.
